


Longer Than the Way

by lady_peony



Category: Stardust (2007)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Post-Canon, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 02:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: "The geese! They must be going south now," she said, a hand pointing, and they were, the wings of the flock flapping with powerful strokes. Tristan smiled, listening to Yvaine go on about the different waterfowl species, and how much bigger they seemed this close in the air, even if they couldn't touch them.





	Longer Than the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurel_crown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel_crown/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, to laurel_crown! Thanks for the chance to write something for an old favorite film of mine, though if any book references slipped in, that may have been entirely accidental. Not as actiony as an adventure in canon, but Tristan and Yvaine really ended up on a more cozy vacation tour than anything else, but I hope it fits your expectations!

The wedding had been splendid. 

It had begun at dusk, so Yvaine's sisters' could see. There was the smell of wildflowers, the deep woods just stirring at night under the moon's glow.

Loud cheers as they kissed. First he and Yvaine stepped into a waltz, then the rest of the guests joining them in wild spinning circles. A dance with his mother, Una, her eyes proud. His father grips his shoulder, grinning, then catches his mother's hand to move into a waltz. 

Yvaine laughing, again, as Captain Shakespeare linked arms with his crew, singing something boisterous and loud as they kicked from the grass to the sky, some children prancing around them bellowing in chorus. 

The months after that had been even more hectic. The magician-architects that visited the castle, fixing the deadliest areas and disarming traps, staircases that plunged down suddenly, windowsills that inclined too much to wobbling ("You have to show them you won't take their nonsense," one architect said, fingers dipped with chalk and goggles pushed high above her curling hair, "they remember, these old things, too many times when they had a taste of blood."). 

Then the hiring, of chefs, and ministers, and seneschals. Tristan remembers facing a few assassins, a few tax assessors. He wasn't sure which he was more afraid of. At least he had been allowed to fight the assassins.

Then lessons, Una had insisted, for him and Yvaine both. She was regent of Stormhold for now. 

But still. History, law, mathematics, farming practices, faerie etiquette, names of nobility. Captain Shakespeare dropped in sometimes in these lessons, when Tristan and Yvaine were yawning over old parchment, and took them out for a spin around the castle, to see the sky and the clouds again. Yvaine loved those trips, as much as she loved studying the nearby fauna around the castle.

But now they would be going on a trip, off on their own. 

It was a fine time for their honeymoon, Una had said, so he and Yvaine spent a day, two days discussing it before they made their decision.

The ship they borrowed from Captain Shakespeare ("A gift!" he had gruffly insisted, "can't say I never did anything for you, now. Treat her well and she'll carry you both well, safe as an egg with a hen.") lifted higher and higher. Tristan heard singing and loud calling of birds, following them, and Yvaine was leaning next to him, shoulder to shoulder. 

"The geese! They must be going south now," she said, a hand pointing, and they were, the wings of the flock flapping with powerful strokes. Tristan smiled, listening to Yvaine go on about the different waterfowl species, and how much bigger they seemed this close in the air, even if they couldn't touch them.

 

****

 

The ship had touched down, eventually, letting out a breath like a sigh over the clearing. It hadn't landed on any houses or trees, fortunately enough.

Yvaine stepped out, feeling glad to do so. The sky was– always had been –her home before, but with her new body, she had to admit there was something comforting about being able to see the ground she was standing on, feeling the grass bend and spring under her feet. 

She looked up. The sky was still there, too. 

"Shall we go?" Tristan said, next to her. He had the map out. Behind him, followed Marjorie, a palace historian, and Alfie, a gangly stableboy. He had wanted to come along, pointing out that he could run messages, or take care of the horses, if they ended up with any.

Yvaine drew her cloak over her head, hair plaited up to sensibly keep it safe from the wind, and slipped a hand into Tristan's offered one. 

The air was different down here. Not the easy, clean sparks of rainclouds, or the wild spicy-sweet scent of a summer sky.

The wind was playful, mixing scents of drying grass and fallen nuts, fruits swelling on branches, a promise of sweetness to the tongue.

Yvaine tilted her head as the wind died away. Was that...?

A girl was crying.

She looked at Tristan, who brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. He was concerned, too.

One step, then two, then ten steps more before they saw her.

An ordinary girl sitting on a half-fallen tree trunk, wearing a plain, but sturdy-looking greenish dress. A head of dark hair in feathery locks to her shoulders. Skin browned from regular time with the sun. Her hazel eyes were scrunched up with crying. 

"Why are you crying?" Yvaine said, her hand landing lightly on the girl's shoulder.

The girl's head whipped up to stare at Yvaine. She wiped the back of her hand over her face. "It's the festival," she said, "to crown the Lady of Harvest. I want to win, but I don't think I can. It'll be Ingrid, more likely than not."

"What makes you think you cannot win?" Yvaine said.

"I can't. I can't do anything!" the girl continued, plaintive. "I can't sing like a bird, or dance, or magick up anything beautiful."

"Well," Yvaine said, thoughtful. "I don't think I'm good at much of anything in particular, but I'm sure. There's something only you can do, isn't there? There's so many other things one can learn besides singing or magic, isn't that right?"

The girl sniffled, a little. "I think you're right." She stood from the tree trunk, bobbed her head. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to have a little cry off by myself. Are you travelers?" She blinked, glancing at their clothes. "Merchants?"

"I'm Yvaine." Yvaine dipped her head, then pulled in Tristan closer. "This is Tristan. Our friends, Marjorie and Alfie," she said, nodding towards the latter, standing a little behind him. "What's your name, and do you know where the closest town is, nearby?"

"I'm Dorothea. Dorothea of Appleton. You're not far from the town. Some of them should be preparing for the festival. And for the rest, the wassailing should be happening now."

All their heads turned. The place where they had found Dorothea was a little out of the ways of the path, behind a thickly grown copse of trees. Through the spaces of these trunks, in the distance, ten, twenty paces away, Yvaine could see the land was more clear, with smaller trees spread out evenly, festooned with bright red and yellow spheres in their branches.

First, the dry crunching of leaves being stamped underfoot, whispers and laughter. At some unknown signal, the rise of voices, a circle of overlapping tones of piping notes and older baritones, singing: 

_Apple tree, apple tree, tall and bright you'll grow_  
_Bloom into apples before the snow_  
_Grow them sweet and many, with a skip and a hop_  
_Or else with an ax, we will chop, chop, chop._

Holding hands, the crowd circled first one trunk of a small tree, then another, singing the same song all the while. This continued, until it seemed the whole grove had been circled through.

Then they left, laughing and chattering. Dorothea and Yvaine and all followed.

Dorothea told them more on the way. Appleton was a small town. Farmers and orchards mostly, the odd tradesman and lawyer here and there. The Lady of Harvest festival was a way for the whole town to gather together, show off their pride and talents, before the whispering sleepiness of winter.

"So why," Marjorie said, a blot of ink already on her cheek from note-taking, "would it be important for you to win?"

Dorothea's face colored.

"It's just that, ah," she said, hands fidgeting together," the ladies of the town get to show off. And Thom Yarrow will be there, for the judging."

The only child of a miller, in the neighboring house across the road from Dorothea's family dairy. They had watched after the cows together, when they were younger, jugs of milk traded for bags of flour with his family.

Hair fair as buttercups, eyes dark as a pond in the woods, tall and watchful. Animals liked him. The elderly liked him. Quiet, yes, but when he spoke, his words were respected.

He was a scribe of sorts for the town now, starting off as a clerk for his father's business, translating any letters or contracts that needed sending from the townspeople.

He had been chosen as the Guardian of Spring in the last festival.

"It is an old Appleton story," Dorothea said, "that if the ones chosen as Guardian of Spring and Lady of Harvest were tied together with love, their bond would last for a hundred years and a day."

"Would this festival have some good eating, you think?" Alfie said, his hand rummaging disconsolately in his bag at his hip.

Dorothea laughed, and assured him they would see it soon. And they did. 

The festival was bright and beautiful, as promised. Dorothea lead Yvaine and Tristan through the town, looking at spreads of vegetables and jams and pots and wares. Marjorie was excited, darting frantically from person to person with a quill in her hand. Alfie got food, chatted with the curious farmboys and girls who showed him some of the children's games, soon enough.

Then evening came. A crowd cleared from the middle of a square, small bonfires lit around in a rough circular border. 

There was no line, but one lady stepped forward first.

She danced forward, with a shawl in her hands, bright and silvery as moonlight. The shawl fluttered, pulled in around her shoulders. A rush of wind and bright shapes like swans came, picking up the girl. She twirled in the air, higher and higher. Even more, just above the crowd's heads, craning back to see her. She stayed, one heartbeat, two, three.

The shapes melted into the night. She landed softly on her feet and curtsied.

Applause, loud and sharp, from the crowd. 

The second one stepped forward. Her skin was a deep brown, slightly touched with gold by the fire. Her hair was dark, a crown of deep red blossoms above it as her only ornament. She opened her mouth. 

No one could quite remember the words, but the voice was fine and light. The song floated like a brook rushing under the summer air, sunlight over grass gilded with dew, the shy memory of a first kiss. The kind of song that could pull gold from straw, coax roses into rubies.

It ended. 

Silence for a breath, before the crowd started stamping and clapping, in waves like a thunderstorm.

Dorothea walked, then, into the waiting circle. 

She went towards one of the small bonfires, and, with a log in her hands, nudged it towards the center of the circle. Then she unburdened herself of the rest of her pack: first a pan. Then a long loaf of bread, several of them. Finally, a round of cheese, pale as a cloud and stamped with Dorothea's name and her family symbol.

There was nothing for the next few minutes, but the sound of the fire licking at wood and Dorothea humming.

"If you would," Dorothea said, curtsying, "there's enough for all." 

Yvaine reached out her hand, almost dropped what Dorothea handed her. It was warm, still fresh from the heat of the fire. She bit down. Tasted first the nuttiness of the bread, then the cheese, buttery and melting, mingling salty and sweet.

Dorothea had passed them out to the rest of the townspeople as well, the cheese she had made between the toasted slices of bread. 

At the end of the evening, Yvaine saw Dorothea talking to a tall young man, who had bent his head down a little to listen to her. Yvaine touched Tristan's elbow. 

"That must be Thom," she said.

Dorothea looked up, towards their way. She and the man made their way to Yvaine and Tristan. 

"We never asked for much from the lords or ladies of Stormhold," Thom said, his expression careful. "But if you have the time to listen, then we would ask for your ear."

"What would you have us do?" Yvaine said, her head raised, staring straight at Thom. "We cannot do much, as we are now, but we will go with you."

She looked towards Tristan, who nodded. "As she says."

They found Marjorie in the crowd first, then followed Dorothea and Thom to a quiet corner past the crowds, near the edge of the mill. There, Tristan and Yvaine listened, asked questions, argued and discussed over trade, the land management, and Stormhold precedents and local laws.

Marjorie took so many notes, she almost went through three quills she said. The next day, Marjorie had asked to stay a little longer in Appleton, to add more to her records of the town and their most important requests, and to wait for Captain Shakespeare's message on how to repair the ship in the field.

 

****

 

Tristan, Yvaine, and Alfie continued on with horses borrowed from Appleton.

They watched the clear town roads narrow again, smoothed down into flat grassy fields by a river.

Tristan noticed it first, when his bay stallion had picked up its feet, the trot going faster, friskier.

"Wow," Alfie had said, ears bending towards the noise.

"Music," Yvaine said, voice bright, "Is a performance in town?" 

Farther along the river, they saw:

A man, with hair red as dawn despite the wrinkles marking his eyes and hands, with a lyre held in his arms.

Another old man with a graceful figure, shining gray hair and yellow-ish eyes, and a fiddle on his shoulder.

A short old woman, with dark curls striped with silver, a dreamy look, and a lute at her side.

A taller old woman, with hair the pale white of new frost, alert eyes, and a drum by her hip. 

"Greetings, travelers," the red-haired man said. He bowed, sweeping and graceful. "We are the Liederberg musicians. I am Sir Alan. Where might you be heading on this day?"

"The right direction, we hope," Tristan said.

"Right? Left? The direction would depend on where you are standing. North, south-east, a southerly wind?" The fiddler dipped his head, eyes now golden. "Monsieur Gilbert."

"Miss Jennet," said one woman, with a few plinking notes from her lute. 

"Miss Grey," said the other, who had relaxed a little during introductions, though her bearing was still poised and watchful.

Tristan half-bowed in return. "I am Tristan. This is Yvaine, my wife," he said, unable to stop his smile from widening at the words. How nice that sounded, still after this time.

Yvaine gave a light nudge to Tristan's shoulder. "I would be Yvaine," she said. "Would you be going the same way as us?"

"I hope we do," said Miss Jennet. "New company is always a treat."

"Mayhaps," said Miss Grey."And where would you be from?" 

The question, simple. Direct.

Tristan paused. 

"Just about five leagues back, we were visiting Appleton. Yvaine and I," he took a breath, "are from Stormhold."

"When I am set on my steed so high, with my crown of gold above my head, derry down down, hey derry down," Sir Alan hummed, the words floating up. "Nobles," he said, in speaking tones, his voice softer.

"Nobles," said Monsieur Gilbert, his intonation curling with the word, like twining rust round iron.

Miss Jennet had just smiled. Miss Grey did not change her expression.

"Oi!" said Alfie, popping up behind Yvaine's shoulder. 

Tristan blinked.

The pause in conversation had cracked, just a little.

"It's the horses. The ones from Appleton are tired, and even with our walking pace, we would need to stop before dark. And get new ones, soon."

"Would you know," Yvaine said, laying a hand by her mare's nose, "where in town we may stop by for the night?"

A look was exchanged between the four musicians.

A blossoming sound in the air, like running water. Alan moved a hand away from his lyre. "The town would still be a half-day's ride ahead. If you and your gentleman would accept, we would offer our hospitality to you, humble as it may be."

Tristan rolled back his shoulders, looked at the horses, their eyes and coats. Alfie looked worn down too, as he had been walking with them all day as well, his steps unable to cover ground as quickly as Tristan or Yvaine's. 

"Very well," Tristan said. "Will you show us the way?"

The horses were first seen to, and tethered, loose enough that they could graze their fill. Tristan and Alfie brought them water. 

A door opened, with Sir Alan, Monsieur Gilbert, Miss Jennet, and Miss Grey entering first. The rest of the party followed after.

Inside the house, it was neat, spacious. A boy was peering at the bread in the oven, a small book in one hand, bright polished pots and stacked woven baskets atop a shelf next to him. A girl was carefully stuffing flowers into small pouches, sweet lavender and dried violets and other bundled roots and leaves on the table before her. 

Both children looked up, eyes wide at their guests. The boy was pale and dark-haired, and had a nose slightly askew to the right, giving him the air of a curious bird. The girl had a type of sparse gracefulness to her movements when she stood up, wary brown eyes watching them under cropped reddish hair. Neither looked any older than ten, or eleven.

"Alice. Peter." Miss Jennet brushed a hand over the bag in the girl's hand. "These look wonderful. Will we be going into town tomorrow with you, then?" 

"Yes," the girl–Alice–said. "I think these will do well. Ladies like 'em, cause they don't die out as quickly as the fresh ones."

"The bread is ready," Peter said, and closed his book. "There's vegetables from the garden too." 

"Good lad," Alan said, and stepped lightly into the kitchen. "Find where we keep those tea leaves, won't you, Peter?"

Monsieur Gilbert had moved to Alice's side at the table, and was helping her sew up the bags of potpourri with neat stitches, placing them into a large basket after.

"These would be your children?" Yvaine said, as they all pulled up mismatched chairs to the table, the supper laid out on top. Tristan had taken out a half-wheel of one of Dorothea's cheeses to add to the table. Alfie had already sat at an end closest to Peter and Alice, chattering and gesturing with one hand excitedly about the flight on the airship to Appleton.

"Yes," Miss Grey said, with the three other musicians simultaneously.

Tristan's expression struggled a little at that. Yvaine could see him trying to calculate the years in his head.

"They are," Alan said, without a single thread of doubt. He passed the water pitcher to Tristan. He looked at the end of the table, where Peter and Alice seemed deep in discussion with Alfie, lowered his voice. "Alice was...Alice was chased from her house by a no-good father. Didn't want to bother feeding her, he said, not after he had lost a job with the cobbler's shop."

"A no-good yellow-livered lout," Miss Grey said, voice as quiet as Alan's. Her smile promised something worse than mere words, as if it was missing a smear of scarlet round her mouth.

"As for Peter," Miss Jennet said. "He had grandparents before, by a town by the mountains. He was happy. But when both of them were gone...the town..."

Tristan's grip on his knife tightened. You had been left at my door in a basket, his father had said. What if his father had not been there? What if his father had, and had refused to take in, by all accounts, a foundling? Would the town have agreed to keep him? Or would they have...?

"So," he went on, keeping his voice steady. "When you found them, you decided to let them stay with you." A question rose from his last statement, lilting upwards.

"Well," said Monsieur Gilbert, eyes a dark copper in the light. "We understand very well what it is like to not be wanted." His hand lowered, plucked at his fiddle. The note pitched into the air, long and low. "And tell us then, fine sir and lady: how will you help them?"

Tristan shifted a glance at Yvaine, her glance flickering between the musicians and the children at the end of the table. 

He lifted his head. "What do they need?" he said. 

 

****

 

They had kept journeying on for miles afterwards, the memory of songs from the musicians lingering during the rest of the road. They had listened to tales, to romances, to traveling ballads meant to be sung by more than one voice, making the heart pump faster, spirits brighter even as their legs and heels ached from the road.

Alfie had gone into the next town they stopped at to check supplies, and ask after any messages from Marjorie or from Stormhold. 

Tristan and Yvaine had gone exploring.

Why shouldn't they have? Yvaine had learned much in her time already, how to move with a body, how to fight from the best tutors Una had sought for, how to ride. Tristan had learned how to listen, how to speak without a waver in his voice, when to bargain and when to hold fast. 

There had been a small hillock near the edges of the town, rocky, but picturesque. Tristan and Yvaine had wandered up there, light-hearted, when the sky had been overcast but the light was still clear.

Tristan shivered, and Yvaine moved in closer to his side. 

The snowstorm had come from nowhere. The wind seemed to buffet them from all directions, and even if they could move down the path, he was afraid they would take a careless step and slip. White, white, white all around, scratching at their skin with every touch.

Tristan and Yvaine had seen the light glowing in what looked like a window. Less than twenty steps ahead of them.

"Shall we go, then?" Tristan said, sweeping into a half-bow, gallant and dear and familiar.

Yvaine pulled in her cloak, nodded. 

The snow had fairly dusted the tips of Yvaine's eyelashes and Tristan's brow and head. The only sound then was the crunching of their footsteps over the new snow and twigs underfoot.

The walk towards the house with the light wasn't very difficult. Though there was a sort of fence that Tristan walked into, and there was a hill, the more they walked, the easier going it seemed to be, like the hill had decided to shift the hard snow into a softer mossy path, springy and easier to walk on.

At the door, Yvaine raised her hand and knocked.

The light leapt, glowing brighter.

"Hello?" she said, even as the wind around them seemed to snatch up her voice. "We're just out here, looking for shelter. Sorry, but is anyone there?"

We had done something like this before, Tristan remembers. He is stronger now, and so is Yvaine. But he shifts his footing, moves down a hand to lightly take up Yvaine's other gloved one in his own. 

Yvaine turned to smile at him, from under her hood.

She knocked again.

A shuffling sound. Then the creak of hinges as the door drew back.

Glowing eyes, from the dark space. A flash of white, fangs in an open, gaping mouth.

Yvaine took a step back. Tristan tensed, ready to reach for his sword or to pull Yvaine with him to a run.

"Arooooooo." A muzzle popped out, with a black nose on the tip. The door nudged open. A dark-furred wolf? Dog? The animal trotted out, ears pricked forward and panting, its pale eyes curious. "Aroo?" 

It looked like it was smiling, tongue out. It shut its mouth then extended its nose forward. Yvaine put out her fingertips. "It was just curious who we were? Weren't you?" she said, as it sniffed at them.

Then it turned to Tristan. Tristan crouched a little, hand following Yvaine's example. A tongue came out and licked briefly at Tristan's hand too before it darted back inside with excited sounds. A dog then, he decided.

"What is it now?" The voice was low and grumbling, a well-worn one like old wood. "Are you from the union? I already paid my dues this month, and if Goody Spinner says I didn't, she's a liar." 

The speaker poked out her head. She had eyes gray and sharp as flint, wrinkles carved deep around them to cheek and jaw. Her mouth was firm, no-nonsense, and reminded Tristan inexplicably of their law tutor, who would draw down her brows just so when he or Yvaine had made an error with their recitations.

In one hand, the woman loosely held a knife. 

Tristan had already taken a step forward, wanting to gently put Yvaine behind him when Yvaine said "Good lady, we had been looking for shelter from the snow. There is someone in town expecting to meet back with us tomorrow, but may we take shelter with you until the storm passes?"

A pause.

The dog poked out its head again and whined.

"Ah, and we're not from the union," Tristan said, feeling like he should say something.

"Well," the woman said. "Since Maxwell approves of you both, I don't mind the two of you visiting just for a spell. Come inside, quickly, before the fire goes out."

She turned.

Yvaine took off her cloak at the door, draping it on a ready hook. Tristan tried to brush off as much snow as he could from his hair and from her shoulders, but could still feel the unpleasant drip of ice water down his back and his fingertips.

"Sorry for the mess," Tristan said, and only saw a wave of the hand from the woman in the corner, sounds of clanking metal drifting over to the door.

The place inside was far warmer than the outside. The woman walked to her table, putting down the knife in her right hand and the onion in her other hand. Other vegetables were heaped there in baskets, and the clean smell of dried herbs and stacked wood pervaded the house. In the side of his eye, Tristan could see a bed pulled out and a pile of quilts. On the other side of the house, some sort sink stood by, with buckets blooming around it.

Behind the table in front of them, a fire was already setting a big pot bubbling.

"Just put your things away somewhere by the door," the woman said. "I'm Bonny Baker. I just was making supper before you two dropped in."

Soon, Tristan and Yvaine had shaken out the worst of the snow from their clothes, washed their hands, and was sitting at the table with Tristan pulling leaves from herbs he recognized, and Yvaine peeling an apple in her hand with the knife Bonny had handed over.

"It'll be stew," Goody Bonny said, "with bacon and onions and these odds and ends." She turned, with a bottle in her hand. "A nip of ale for either of you? Once you're done with those apples, they'll go into the pot and we just need to wait a while."

"That would be nice," Yvaine said, "I wouldn't mind a cup either–"

She stopped when Maxwell threw back his head, made a high yipping noise. He danced around Bonny then, whining all the while.

"What is it?" Bonny said. Maxwell drew back his ears and yipped again. 

"Ah," Bonny said. She set down her bottle back on the shelf with a clink. She hauled out a kettle from the same shelf, one with dents but otherwise bright and well-polished. "Tea is better for conversation on nights like these."

"Well, Goody Bonny," Tristan said, he said once the tea had been poured. He and Yvaine were sharing a mug, curling steam wisping from the top. "What is it that you do around the town?"

"I'm a witch," Bonny said.

"You're a–" Yvaine blinked. "a witch, you said?" Her fingers curled in around her teacup. 

Tristan thought carefully, before he spoke next. "We've met some witches, but they weren't...weren't always nice, most of them."

Bonny was quiet for a bit, before she spoke. "I don't know about the others you met. There's always some who get odd ideas about magic, if they been working at it alone for too long, if they forget the most important thing. Magic should give, not just take."

Yvaine sat up, taller. "All right. What is it you do, most days?"

"I help mediate between disagreements when this or that family has something they can't solve. When they need someone to see why travelers are getting lost in the woods, they may ask me. Or I mind my own business, visiting the mountains, getting Maxwell out and about." 

The conversation went on then, with Yvaine asking where Bonny had traveled to, and she said she had, many times when she was younger. To places with birds large as dragons, where fox-eyed fey traded moving tapestries for human secrets or daydreams, where river mermaids would serenade the sunrise. 

Their teacups were filled, emptied, and refilled again.

The stew was done too, warming and delicious.

Maxwell had curled up under the table at Bonny's feet, tail tucked over his nose. The fire had still been going, slower now. 

"I think the storm has stopped," Tristan said. 

"Thank you very much for your hospitality," Yvaine said. 

"Watch out well after yourselves now, Bonny said, when they were at the door. "And Yvaine? Be careful too. You would be expecting during the summer."

"Expecting? Oh," Yvaine said. "Oh," she said, softer, and grinned at Tristan, bright and irrepressible. "Tristan! Isn't it wonderful?" 

Tristan blinked. Then smiled back at Yvaine, and tucked Yvaine's arm under his. He grinned just as wide as she did, boyish and beaming. 

"Many thanks, Goody Bonny," he said, and saw a sharp, nearly approving nod from her before she shut the door. 

When they stepped outside, for the ambling walk back to town, the sky was clear. The stars glimmered overhead.

 

****

 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> +Title taken from [Riddles Wisely Expounded](http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/ballads/early_child/sidebar5.html). _What is longer than the way?_
> 
> +Apple wassailing: another example of this can be found [in this performance of it](http://www.afolksongaday.com/?p=1797)
> 
> +References were made to the fairytale of the [Bremen Town Musicians](http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/brementown/index.html)


End file.
